


Intelligent Force

by plingo_kat



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, M/M, NOT A DARKFIC, this was supposed to be lighthearted but it got plotty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-31
Updated: 2015-04-13
Packaged: 2018-03-19 20:45:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3623721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plingo_kat/pseuds/plingo_kat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emrys Pryce is a puzzle. Harry thinks about this as he goes through his morning routine, hushed in deference to Eggsy’s still-sleeping form. As he checks the fit of trousers and suit jacket over hidden knife sheaths and two nicely compact glocks, he wonders idly if the man might be persuaded over to Harry’s point of view.</p><p>or: Lancelot is dead, Harry Hart and Eggsy Unwin are international terrorists, Merlin is kidnapped, and Kingsman isn't quite what it seems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Art by [blinkingkills](http://blinkingkills.tumblr.com/) @ tumblr

o.

“Richmond Valentine,” Merlin says, tapping the man’s picture on his iPad screen. It appears on the television in front of him. “Owner of a multi-billion dollar company which deals in various technologies, particularly communications tech. A vocal proponent of green energy, donates handsomely to various charities. Three of his facilities have been attacked within the past month.”

He swipes; the next picture in the slideshow appears. “In each instance, there has been minimal loss of life. Security was breached -- and dispatched, if necessary -- before certain areas were penetrated. Mostly databanks and cargo storage. Once, the production facilities. Fire alarms were pulled at each location exactly twenty-eight minutes before set charges went off. C4, military grade. We’re dealing with professionals.”

“Any idea who?” The new Lancelot doesn’t lack daring, Merlin thinks as he meets her eyes. Many young women wouldn’t have spoken up in a meeting full of men older than her, no matter how skilled she was.

He rewards her by swallowing a sharp retort. “Not as such,” he says instead. “No footage survived, and satellites gave us nothing. We know it had to have been a small team for the actual infiltration, the attack pattern doesn’t fit any other profile.”

“So?” Percival leans back in his chair, fox-like features thoughtful. “You must have something, or else we wouldn’t be here.”

“Hm.” Merlin taps at his iPad. “Yes. It’s… worrying.”

An image of rubble appears on the screen, still smouldering. Merlin zooms in on a portion of it, a glint of light off something hidden between two collapsed walls. When the rendering program is done enhancing the picture both Lancelot and Percival suck in air through their teeth.

A pin, the letter “K” enclosed within a circle.

 _Kingsman_.

 

 

i.

“Who even is this bloke,” Eggsy says, sprawled all over the hotel room’s king-sized bed. He looks at Harry upside down, head hanging off the mattress’ edge. “And why d’you want him so bad?”

“Emrys Pryce,” Harry says, perching primly on the single chair in front of the diminutive hotel desk. “Although that almost certainly isn’t his real name. He is highly placed within the Kingsman agency.”

“Yeah?” Eggsy wriggles a little. The mattress is pretty nice. “So?”

“So,” Harry turns away from the computer screen where he’s doing… _whatever_. Either hacking into MI5 or looking up suitable restaurants for dinner: with Harry, it could go either way. “He’s not an agent, or his cover would be less obvious. Which means that--”

“He’s their intel man?” Eggsy blinks. “Really?”

“What’s so surprising about it?” Harry taps away at the keyboard.

“He’s kinda old, innit?” Eggsy says. “T’be a techie.”

There’s a pointed silence from Harry.

“I mean,” Eggsy backpedals. “Not that old guys can’t be good with computers, yeah? And, uh, not that you’re old. Um.”

“It truly amazes me,” Harry says dryly, “how quickly you can put your foot in your mouth. Oh, don’t worry, I’m not upset with you. But I am going to pick where we’re going for dinner, and you aren’t allowed to complain.”

“Sure, sure,” Eggsy says, relieved. “Whatever you say, guv.”

Thirty minutes later he’s regretting saying anything at all, dressed exquisitely in a navy suit and deep maroon tie, matching pocket square and unobtrusive gold cufflinks. Even his hair is styled.

“I look like a prick,” he mutters to Harry, who is wearing a similar outfit and pulling it off much better. Must be the spectacles. “A daddy’s boy, Eton, _prick_.”

“Nonsense,” Harry says. When he raises a hand to hail a cab, one just stops in front of him. Eggsy already knows about this superpower, but he’s impressed every time. “You look like a fine young man going to dinner at a respectable restaurant.”

“If by ‘respectable’ you mean ‘posh joints that don’t even put prices on the menus.’” Eggsy is struck by this thought. “Shit, tell me there’ll at least be prices on the menu.”

Harry doesn’t roll his eyes, but Eggsy can feel him wanting to. “Don’t be ridiculous, of course there are.”

They spend the entire cab ride arguing about how rich Harry is -- Harry won’t tell Eggsy, which has been a point of curiosity for practically the entire time they’ve been acquainted. Eggsy has concluded ‘ridiculously’ as a ballpark figure, given that Harry does things like this every time they’re in London and also has a stash of explosives and missile launchers in various places around the world.

Harry tips the cabbie generously. The cabbie mouths ‘keep him’ at Eggsy, who realizes suddenly what their conversation would sound like to some random man in the street.

“Fuck,” he tells Harry once the cab pulls away. “He totally thought you were my sugar daddy.”

“Did he?” Harry’s lips twitch.

“You do this on purpose, don’t you,” Eggsy says, narrowing his eyes. “Like, just to mess with me, yeah?”

“Would I do that?” Harry says. There are fine crinkles at the corners of his eyes.

“You’re a sick man,” Eggsy says as Harry herds him into the restaurant. Definitely posh, he thinks as he takes in the muted conversation and soft candle lighting, the finely dressed maitre'd who meets them at the door.

Their table gets a rose put on it.

 

Eggsy sleeps with the untroubled innocence of youth, snoring faintly in the the watery pre-dawn light. Harry wakes three times, twice due to Eggsy’s movements, and decides after a moment that he’s not going to be getting any more rest. He eases out of the bed (Eggsy rolls over, bundling himself up in the covers Harry vacates) and pads silently to the laptop.

11 SAVILLE ROW, LONDON W1S 3PS, the screen blinks at him. SIGNAL LOST.

Harry smiles. Then he eases a drawer open, fishes out the ubiquitous hotel notepad and pen, and jots down a quick note for Eggsy. The boy will be disappointed, but this job doesn’t require two men and Harry is loathe to wait.

Emrys Pryce is a puzzle. Harry thinks about this as he goes through his morning routine, hushed in deference to Eggsy’s still-sleeping form. As he checks the fit of trousers and suit jacket over hidden knife sheaths and two nicely compact glocks, he wonders idly if the man might be persuaded over to Harry’s point of view.

Premature. Intel is scarce now with their informant dead, and Mr. King is both careful and cunning; there’s no telling how much anyone in the agency knows about what Valentine is up to, or who has been suborned.

A faint drizzle mists the air as Harry walks out of the hotel. He opens his umbrella and makes the trek to the Tube, just another businessman on his way to work. While he’s waiting at the station he purchases a bagel and tea -- poppy and Earl Grey, respectively -- and consumes them neatly in the six minutes before his train arrives.

A Starbucks is open about a block away from the Kingsman tailor shop. Harry orders a cup of coffee he definitely won’t drink and tries to remember what they did before chain wifi hotspots infested cities around the world, but can’t easily recall. Loitered around in vans. Hotels, possibly. This is much more convenient.

He sits down in a corner where he can see all the exits, sets his coffee aside to cool, pulls out his Macbook and power cord, and settles in to wait.

 

Two hours later his laptop gives a polite beep. The blinking red dot indicates that a man matching Pryce’s description has exited the shop. Harry does not, unfortunately, have access to surveillance feeds; Kingsman implemented countermeasures for at least half a mile in every direction. Instead he packs up, taking his cold coffee with him, and heads towards Saville Row at a brisk walk.

At this time of morning there are few people out on the street. Harry spots a bald head in front of him almost immediately and slows his pace to match the other man’s stride. Pryce walks to a black cab parked on the side of the road and folds himself into the back. Three seconds later the car starts up and pulls out from the curb.

As it drives past, Harry flicks a glance at it -- there and away, a pedestrian’s instinct to identify a moving vehicle. He notes down the plate number for further investigation and keeps going, passing by Alexander McQueen and Kingsman and the rest of the shops, before pulling out his phone to find the nearest main street.

Eggsy greets him at the door of the hotel in a surprisingly good mood despite remonstrating Harry by text throughout the entire cab ride.

HOW COULD U, a text box had accused him.

I’M GONNA ORDER ROOM SERVICE. A picture of pancakes. DID U FIND ANYTHING?? Another picture, this time of bacon. NONE OF ITS YOURS.

“So?” Eggsy says, following Harry inside.

“A license plate,” Harry says. “And confirmation that the tailor shop is a front. If Pryce goes in to work tomorrow, you can come with me to be fitted for a suit.”

“Aw, really?” Eggsy makes a face. “Another fitting?”

“You might as well get a new suit,” Harry says. “You only own two.”

“Yeah,” Eggsy says. “That’s ‘cos they’re uncomfortable. I dunno how you hide like, six guns or whatever in your outfit, bruv, but I can’t even hop a fence when I’m all dressed up.”

“You just need more practice,” Harry says. “I wasn’t born in a suit, you know. It took a bit for me to get used to it.”

“Yeah,” Eggsy drawls. “But I’m the jeans and sneakers type.”

“You certainly look it, with that hat.”

“Don’t knock the cover!” Eggsy raises a defensive hand to the brim of his baseball cap. “‘S a _style_.”

Harry lets his silence speak for him.

“Anybody ever tell you you’re a snob?”

“Only about clothing,” Harry says. Although, _he_ had said that once to--no. Never mind.

Eggsy laughs. “So what are we going to do today, then?”

“A bit of research, I think. And then… which museum would you like to visit?”

Eggsy groans.

 

 

ii.

Merlin falls into bed fully clothed and doesn’t wake up for fifteen hours. When he does, it’s to his spectacles beeping quietly on the dresser next to his bed, a red light flashing on the lens. He rubs his eyes and puts them on.

“Merlin.” Percival’s voice. A little ‘P’ in the corner of his vision when he opens his eyes confirms it. “We need you to come in.”

“What.” Merlin has to stop and clear his throat. “Sorry, just woke up. What’s going on?”

“Galahad’s dead.”

Merlin is suddenly, horribly awake. “How?”

“That’s it -- we don’t know. He was in London on leave. Didn’t have his glasses on. No messages, no hint of trouble. As far as we knew, he was fine. Up until now.”

Merlin is already gathering his coat. A quick sniff of his underarm proves that he’s not noticeably smelly, which is good enough for the moment. The office has extra changes of clothing for emergencies like this one.

“I’m on my way. Cause of death?”

“Bullet through the head. One shot, clean. Nine by nineteen milimeters, we’re thinking a Glock nineteen or twenty-six. Full autopsy pending.”

“Fuck.” Merlin hadn’t particularly _liked_ Galahad, he was one of Arthur’s hand picked agents and full of himself with it, but he’d worked alongside the man for years. Saved his life a couple of times, heard tidbits about his sister and nephews. And now he was gone, merely two months after Lancelot.

Percival laughs, completely devoid of mirth. “You said it. I’ll meet you at HQ.”

“Copy.” Merlin slides into the driver’s seat of the cab and inputs the address for the tailor shop into the auto-navigator. As his iPad’s VPN connects to the Kingsman servers, Merlin closes his eyes and lets his head fall back. What a fucking disaster.

The journey to the Kingsman estate is simultaneously too short and too long. Merlin dozes for part of it, body sluggish from oversleeping, and spends the rest of the time catching up on what he’s missed. Bedivere and Gawain are still on missions; Tristan is scheduled for a rendezvous with Beijing that can’t be rescheduled; all other agents have been put on standby, pending Arthur’s report and the toast.

Percival and Lancelot greet him as he steps out of the basement elevator. Percival is holding a sandwich. Merlin, who has spent the forty minute train ride regretting not grabbing breakfast, reaches out a hand.

“Arthur?” he says before he takes a bite. God, ham and egg and a bit of cilantro, dabs of mayonnaise and mustard -- _delicious_.

“Mad as hell, not that anyone’d be able to tell,” Percival reports. “He wants to know who did this _yesterday_.”

“I’ll report in,” Merlin sighs. “What’s the status on that autopsy?”

“Another hour and a half for initial results,” Lancelot supplies. “Forensics says that so far the body is clean.”

“Oh?” Merlin glances at her. “When was he discovered?”

“Half past midnight. We didn’t get notice until about two hours ago, and then we had the body transported over.”

“Arthur is sending an agent out to scout the area,” Percival breaks in. “Which means me.”

“And me,” says Lancelot.

Percival shakes his head, his mouth set in a grim line. “Arthur doesn’t want us without backup, but you know I’m not comfortable with this -- you’ve only been out of training three weeks.”

“So I’ll stay out of direct fieldwork.” Lancelot sounds as if they’ve had this argument before. “I’m not a recruit any longer, Percival.”

Percival grunts, unconvinced. Merlin swallows another mouthful of his sandwich.

“If Arthur ordered it, you won’t change his mind,” he points out. To Lancelot: “We’ll kit you out with the best we have -- both of you.”

Percival summons up a faint smile. “What, you mean you haven’t been? Holding out on us, eh, Merlin?”

“Ha ha,” Merlins says dryly. “If you bloody agents didn’t always ruin the equipment we gave you, maybe you’d get the top quality stuff all the time.”

“Oh?” Lancelot’s eyes shift from Merlin to Percival, considering. “Has Percival wrecked anything before?”

“Don’t even get me started,” Merlin growls. He’s heartened to see the faraway look in Percival’s eyes vanish, distracted by the teasing.

“There were extenuating circumstances each time.” Percival waves a hand.

“So it’s a recurring habit, is it?” Lancelot winks at Merlin. Good girl, catching on so quick. “Care to give a girl some details?”

“I’ll leave that to the man responsible,” Merlin tilts his head in the direction of Arthur’s office. “I’ve got a meeting.”

“Good luck.” Percival claps a hand on his shoulder. Lancelot just nods.

“Stay alive.” Merlin nods back. “I’ll be in touch.”

Arthur is in his office, not the briefing or dining room, reading through a stack of reports. He looks up at Merlin’s knock on the doorframe.

“Come in.” Papers are laid down flat on the desk, finely-wrinkled hands folded together on top. “I take it Percival has briefed you on the situation.”

“Yes, sir.” Merlin comes to a halt at a distance where Arthur doesn’t have to crane to see him. “Although none of his information was particularly helpful. Do you have anything I can use?”

“Hm.” Arthur looks at Merlin for a long moment. “Sit down, Merlin.”

 _Shit_. Arthur never asks him to sit down for good news. He perches in the guest chair. “Sir?”

“What I’m about to tell you is sensitive information. _Nobody_ is to be read in on this without my express permission. Understood?”

“Yessir.”

“Good.” Arthur nods. “Lancelot was a traitor.”

Merlin spends a long moment staring, his mind blank.

 _”What?”_ he manages, finally.

“It came to my attention that the former Lancelot had been passing along information to outside parties. This was on his last mission. Unfortunately, he never made it back in for questioning.”

“...How did you know? Why haven’t I been working on this?”

“Tristan brought some discrepancies to my attention. Personal ones, not Kingsman-related, it wasn’t relevant to Merlin department. Or so I believed.”

“You think that’s why Galahad was killed.” Merlin makes the leap quickly. “Of course. He was on leave, only somebody who knew who he was could have done it.”

“So now I’m telling you.” Arthur looks at Merlin over his spectacles. “Trust no one. Report anything you find about this to me, and me alone.”

“Understood.”

 

“Why,” Lancelot says slowly. “Was Galahad in Clapham Common, anyway?”

“Are you implying something?” Percival’s feed sweeps over an empty field studded with clumps of trees. “Great sightlines.”

“Unless someone was in one of those trees,” Lancelot says. “Then you’d be in trouble.”

“As it happens,” Merlin breaks in, “Galahad’s body was found several feet off the path that runs across the common north of the bandstand. It’s lined with trees.”

“So I see.” Police tape is still liberally strewn around, bold POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS POLICE LINE DO NOT layered and fluttering in the breeze.

“That’s a bit excessive, isn’t it?” Lancelot’s feed lingers on the dark stain soaked into the dirt.

“A murder by way of headshot would be treated as a serious investigation,” Merlin says. A notification pops up in his email. “Aha. Preliminary autopsy report is in.”

“Go ahead and read it.” Percival pull out his smartphone. “We’ve got everything from the police.”

“Oh,” Merlin says absently. “Lancelot, to answer your question, according to Tristan, Galahad liked to run from his safehouse near Battersea down to Clapham and back. The man wasn’t gay and kept his personal liaisons private.”

“Good to know.” Percival sounds a little choked. Lancelot coughs a little.

“Strange for somebody to run down here when there’s a perfectly serviceable park closer by.”

“Battersea is full of tourists.” Percival is dismissive. “It’s annoying. I can understand not wanting to be around all those civilians when you want to relax.”

Lancelot replies, but Merlin tunes turns down the volume from their feeds in favor of the autopsy report. It’s unhelpful: forty-four year old male, normal anatomy with slight evidence of tissue damage consistent with high impact activity, no substantial recent injuries besides a single gunshot wound to the cranium three centimeters above the left brow ridge. Cause of death: having his brains blown out. Toxicology and biopsy results pending.

“Nothing,” Percival is saying when Merlin turns the feed volume back up. “If it was a hit, they cleaned up after themselves well.”

“Should we check around the rest of the park?” Lancelot turns, scanning the grounds. Two men look like they’re out for a walk, either lovers or related. The only other living beings in sight are pigeons.

“No.” Percival shakes his head. “We’re done here. Let’s get back to HQ.”

 

 

iii.

“So that’s them, is it?” Eggsy keeps his voice low even though there’s no earthly way the two Kingsman agents will be able to hear him. “They don’t look like pricks, at least.”

“Language,” Harry sighs. “Although yes, they’re less likely to be working for Valentine than the one we killed. Apparently the man was a friend of Lance. Sponsored him -- and your father -- for the position.”

“Yeah?” Eggsy squints. Harry wonders suddenly if he shouldn’t have mentioned Lee Unwin’s involvement with Kingsman. Lance (not his real name) had supported the Unwins when he could, dropping in on Eggsy every couple of years in deference for Lee Unwin’s sacrifice, but Eggsy had no idea of what his father had been involved with until just six months ago.

“Yes.” Harry doesn’t elaborate, and Eggsy doesn’t pry. “Come on, it looks like they’re leaving.”

They trail the agents out of the park and out of the city. Kingsman seems to favor black cabs, even when traveling in and out of London. A mistake, Harry thinks. A cab is good camouflage within the city, but noticeable once you leave it. Sloppy.

Eggsy insists on being in charge of the radio, so they’re listening to some terrible Top 40’s pop song when the Kingsman cab detours onto a private side road. Harry continues past the turnoff until they’re a mile or two away, then pulls over off into a copse of trees that isn’t readily visible from the road.

“Awright!” Eggsy all but jumps out of the passenger seat. “Finally, some real sneaking about. I was going crazy with all them museums and hotel daytime soap operas.”

“I really don’t understand why you subject yourself to those,” Harry says. “The telly does have cable. And dealing with Galahad wasn’t enough excitement for you?”

“They’re addictive,” Eggsy explains. “Once you start one, you gotta watch ‘em all, just to see how ridiculous it can get. And I just sat in a Starbucks listening to _you_ deal with Galahad, which wasn’t exciting at all. It didn’t even take long.”

That was true. Galahad hadn’t been particularly talkative, and Harry was pressed for time; he merely confirmed that the Kingsman agent was under Valentine’s thumb and disposed of him before leaving. The whole thing had been a risk, but it was paying off now.

“Very well,” Harry concedes. “But remember--”

“Follow your lead, I get it.” Eggsy bumps Harry’s shoulder companionably. “Don’t worry so much. I made the Marines, didn’t I? And then you trained me. I’m good, bruv.”

That is also true. Eggsy is talented, quick-witted, eager: potential realized. He would have made an excellent SAS agent, if a terrible marine, due to an independence of thought and natural challenge of authority. Instead Harry is moulding him into an international terrorist.

“I worry about you,” Harry admits. “While you’ve kept up with me and performed -- I’ll only say this once -- admirably, you haven’t been up against a competently run organization before.”

Eggsy lights up. Harry is spare with praise a rule, preferring to show his approval with increased responsibilities or the occasional material gift. After Eggsy’s first successful mission he’d given the boy a new handgun and hidden belt knife; he looked almost as happy as he does right now.

“I’ll be careful,” Eggsy promises.

“See that you do.” Harry’s stern look has no effect on Eggsy’s enthusiasm. Perhaps he should have saved his praise for after surveilling the Kingsman facility. Ah well, too late now.

Eggsy catches the binoculars and water bottle Harry tosses to him with an easy grace, setting them on the hood of the car while he checks all his weapons. In deference to the nature of their mission Eggsy is wearing a black zip-up hoodie instead of his normal yellow-patterned jacket, with dark jeans and a cloth belt. He has sturdy, non-reflective grey trainers on his feet. Harry is dressed similarly, though in woolen trousers instead of jeans.

“All right?” Harry adjusts the fit of a knife-sheath before standing up straight, hanging his own pair of binoculars around his neck.

“Ready.” Eggsy all but bounces on his toes.

The trek to their destination takes about an hour. They follow an access road which veers off into another path, properly paved instead of dirt, and spend fifteen minutes using Google Maps to determine which direction they should head in.

“Right,” Eggsy concludes after turning his phone around four times. “We came from here, and now we’re _here_ , so we turn right to get to this house, see?”

Harry has a naturally terrible sense of direction. Over the years he’s learned to compensate; Eggsy hasn’t had the time. He checks the map over Eggsy’s shoulder. “That seems correct. Right it is.”

“So,” Eggsy says idly after another few minutes. “How come we don’t just, like, hijack a satellite to case the joint instead of all this?”

“Are you serious?” Harry sighs. Youth, watching all those new technological spy movies. It gives them a completely inaccurate vision of how the life actually works. “You didn’t pay attention at all when I tried to teach you about hacking, did you.”

“...No?” Eggsy ventures. “I know how to crack a password, and how to run your programs, but most of the stuff you said went right over my head. You know that, you said I was hopeless.”

“Your talents do seem to lie in other areas.” How somebody as bright as Eggsy can’t grasp the principles of DNS and basic WAP security evades him. “In any case, no I can’t ‘hack a satellite’ whenever I like. We’re single agents, we don’t have the support infrastructure needed for that kind of work.”

“Okay,” Eggsy seems to take this on faith. “More fun for us, I guess.”

Harry wants to disagree but makes a habit not to lie to himself -- the two weeks they’ve spent laying low in London have dragged, even with the stalking of Galahad and Emrys Pryce. Some good, honest, groundwork will get the blood pumping.

When they begin to see signs of frequent habitation, they go off road again. The (suspected) Kingsman headquarters is a sprawling mansion surrounded by even more sprawling grounds, all neatly cut grass, no cover. Harry picks a tall, sturdy looking pine and boosts Eggsy up.

“Is the view all right?” He’s a bit breathless after his own climb. About two-thirds up the branches begin to creak ominously under their weight; Eggy is perched as high as he can go, thighs clamped tight around the trunk, while Harry is settled about a man’s height below.

“Yeah.” Eggsy fumbles with the binoculars. “Okay… don’t look like they got any overt security…”

They stay in the tree for two hours, switching off being lookout. Between them they mark security cameras around the exterior, at least three mounted guns, something that Harry suspects is a ground-to-air missile launcher, the likely presence of a pack of guard dogs, and heat and/or motion sensors on all the windows.

“At least we got the right place,” Eggsy opines as they slide back down.

“We’ll have to take Pryce after all,” Harry says. “When he’s at the tailor shop, you and I will make an appointment.”

 _"Fun."_ Eggsy makes a face.


	2. Chapter 2

 

iv.

Merlin forces himself to go home after a fruitless fourteen hours spent following the Galahad investigation and digging into Lancelot’s personal history. No new evidence comes up that would help identify Galahad’s killer, and Lancelot was one of the agents conscientious about taking off his spectacles when he wasn’t on the job. He had no family and his will was unremarkable -- he gifted everything to Kingsman except for a trust left for the Unwin family.

Merlin runs a check on the Unwins just for formality’s sake. It wasn’t a secret that Lancelot had been friends with the late Lee Unwin, that he felt he owed his life to the man willing to jump on a grenade in the middle of a desert nowhere, that he tried to provide for Unwin’s family as best he could. Lee’s son Gary completed a stint in the Marines and is currently overseas. Michelle Unwin is taking care of Daisy Unwin, Gary’s half-sister, and working part-time as a receptionist in a flower shop. She has no contact with Daisy’s father. They seem to draw on the trust fund yearly, skimming off the interest to help supplement summer holiday trips.

Nothing suspicious.

It _doesn’t make any sense_. From the reports Arthur forwarded, Lancelot began passing information to various underground groups two months before his death. With no triggers in his personal life -- despite what Arthur claims -- it must be work related.

Merlin watches all the main Kingsman missions, either as a handler when they’re happening or afterwards for review purposes. Perhaps he missed something. He falls asleep with the world from Lancelot’s point of view playing in his mind, trying to pinpoint when one of his closest friends betrayed both country and comrades.

His awakening in the -- a glance at the clock shows nine eighteen -- morning is much nicer than his last encounter exiting sleep. He does a quick stretch routine before he realizes that there’s nothing in the refrigerator except for a package of rotted spinach and orange juice. He drinks the orange juice.

The stray cat that occasionally lurks about the neighborhood is sunning itself on Merlin’s steps. Merlin steps over it to toss his spinach and collected rubbish in the bin, then goes back inside to pull out the dry cat food.

He leaves Sir Vorfelus eating kibble off a piece of cardboard and goes back inside. Opens all the blinds -- it feels like ages since he’s seen sunlight. Orders two portions of takeout, one for breakfast and one for lunch. Then he gets to work.

Forget about Lancelot for now; the man is dead, he’ll keep. The hot item at the moment is Galahad’s murder.

He checks the police investigation; they have constables chasing down possible leads and entering the data into HOLMES. Merlin smirks a little. He loves the twenty-first century. In the old days you’d have to send somebody down pretending to somebody In Authority, or have Arthur call the actual authorities on your behalf. Now Merlin just hacks in.

Two entries are flagged as Items of Special Interest, which means they’re what the Detective Inspectors have the best gut feeling about. One of them is a men’s size ten footprint made by a Nike Flyknit Air Max, one of the most expensive trainers Nike sells. Merlin shakes his head. Too generic. The other is a staggeringly large list of photos and names that changes even as Merlin watches: two are eliminated due to alibis, and one more is added from a glimpse of face in some security footage.

 _That_ is more promising. Merlin sets a program to mine the information from the list and goes to answer the door.

Curry and crab rangoon for breakfast may be unusual, but Merlin polishes off an entire container in record time. In the post-feast torpor, his phone buzzes. He checks it -- a reminder to shower.

Two additional notifications greet him when he steps out of the bathroom. Percival and Lancelot have snapchatted -- Merlin, not for the first time, vows to have _words_ with the tech who introduced agents to Snapchat -- and a private alert.

Somebody just tried to access and change Lancelot’s file.

He pulls on trousers, t-shirt, and cardigan before he’s out the door.

 

 

v.

Harry and Eggsy are eating lunch when Harry’s phone buzzes.

“Excuse me,” he says to Eggsy, who raises his eyebrows in a _what for?_ gesture. E.P. @ 11 SAVILLE ROW, LONDON W1S 3PS, the notification tells him.

“Oh,” Eggsy swallows the last piece of his sashimi. “That’s a good look. We finally going to move on Pryce?”

“After lunch, yes.” Harry licks a bit of wasabi off his chopstick, smug. “There’s no hurry. Pryce seems to make a habit of working long hours.”

“Yeah, I don’t know anyone else like that at all,” Eggsy says, voice heavy with irony. Harry ignores him with the ease of practice.

They take a cab to Saville Row and have it drop them off at the Starbucks so that Eggsy can disarm. The place has a single person bathroom.

“Great,” Eggsy says, tugging up a pant leg. “Now the baristas are gonna think I’m blowing you in here.”

Harry takes his knife and shin holster with a smile. “What if I were the one blowing you?”

“Yeah right,” Eggsy scoffs. “Posh bloke like you with a young thing like me? ‘S obvious who’s gonna be on their knees for who, yeah?”

Harry’s smile grows. “Really?”

Eggsy blinks. His face takes on a sudden wooden cast as he realizes what he’s been arguing for. Then he straightens, one hand undoing the straps for the flat sheath along his forearm. “Definitely,” he says firmly.

“Far be it for me to deny the baristas.” Harry reaches out a hand.

Eggsy nearly flinches away, but calms where Harry just runs his fingers through his hair a couple of times.

“There,” Harry says. He watches Eggsy look at himself in the mirror, watches him take in the the ruffled spikes. And because Eggsy, for all that he complains, has as wicked a sense of humor as Harry could ask for--

“Sure,” he shrugs, shaking his hidden sheath loose with the movement. “Here. That good, or do you think I need to get rid of the belt too?”

Harry eyes the buckle. It’s a cunningly hidden belt knife, and any young man who’s a bit full of himself can buy one.

“You should be fine.” He fastens Eggsy’s knives under his own clothing. “Does everything sit right?”

Eggsy eyes him, tugs on a coat sleeve and his left trouser leg. “Walk a few steps. Okay, you’re good.”

When they open the door an employee is outside with their hand up in a fist, ready to knock.

Harry blinks twice, an open-close-open-close of exaggerated guilelessness. “I’m sorry, can we help you?”

Next to him, Eggsy stifles a snort. The employee reddens. “I’m sorry sirs, but I have to ask you to leave.”

“Whatever for?” Harry says before Eggsy grabs his arm.

“Sure thing, mate,” Eggsy nods. Harry follows without protest as Eggsy drags him out. “You can be such a fucking troll, Harry.”

Harry chooses to take this as a compliment, given Eggsy’s vaguely awed tone.

“Thank you,” he says. “Now, on to business. You’ll be fitted for a suit -- while the staff is occupied, I’ll step out for a smoke break and plant the tracking device on Pryce’s car.”

“Do I have to, like, choose fabrics and stuff?” Eggsy would never admit it, but he’s whining.

“I’ll help you,” Harry sighs.

Eggsy lights up. “You’re the best, Harry.”

“Yes, well. As I recall, the last time you wanted _bright yellow_ pinstripes.”

“Yeah, and I got all chewed out for it by the tailor, didn’t I?” Eggsy winces. “Don’t want that happening again.”

“You’ll be safe with me.”

They enter Kingsman side by side and introduce themselves as Justin Hartwood and Henry Deer, both covers with highly established histories. While giving out their real names likely wouldn’t be a problem, Harry doesn’t want to risk it.

They are the only ones currently in the shop. Kingsman takes walk-ins, so they do measurements and chose fabric then and there. Harry picks a lovely grey glen plaid and suggests a two button design with thin, notched lapels. The last tailor they visited had chosen to give Eggsy a double-breasted suit, vented with padded shoulders -- exquisite work, but not the best fit for Eggsy’s body type. The Kingsman tailor, a Mr. Oster, nods thoughtfully.

“Yes, that would look good on his frame. Lean, slender.”

Eggsy looks as if he’s trying not to roll his eyes. Harry appreciates his restraint, and conveys this thought with a sharp look. Eggsy grins, sheepish.

Mr. Oster is trained with firearms. From the looks of his calluses he handles them often, and from the way his fingers move Harry thinks that he may have knife training as well. Harry smiles amiably and deliberately turns his back to the storefront windows.

When Eggsy is taken off to the fitting room Harry’s ‘smoke break’ excuse seems to be accepted without question. He goes outside and makes his way to Pryce’s car in a casual saunter, loitering as he pulls out a cigarette. Then he actually does smoke until the fag is halfway down to the filter before he drops it on the sidewalk and grinds it out under his heel.

He needs to smell authentic. The bug is planted behind the lower lip of of Pryce’s license plate.

Eggsy is still being fitted when he comes back inside -- an apprentice tells him they’ll be another twenty minutes. Harry wanders around the shop in the meantime, eyeing the dimensions of the room, reaching out to touch the fabrics as if he’s fascinated. There’s something slightly off about one side of the shop. Given that there are three fitting rooms, two on the south side and one on the north, and given that Kingsman is bracketed by two other clothing stores...

There’s a hidden room. Harry bends over to inspect a fine navy velvet fabric, rubbing a finger over it to feel the softness of the fibers. Yes, the north side of the shop definitely has a hidden room. But what for? Nothing substantial could be housed in such a small area, and their headquarters are ten miles out of the city in any case. A small offsite server room? An armory?

Before he can sidle over to the wall and case the place more thoroughly, there’s a soft chime from behind. Two people walk through the door and Harry keeps his gaze blandly cursory with effort; they are the two agents he and Eggsy trailed back to Kingsman HQ the day before.

They take him in with sharp eyes. Harry keeps his body loose, turns his back trustingly, rocks on his heels in a horrifically off-balance stance. When he looks over in their direction again, they’ve dismissed him. Good.

Eggsy blinks at them as he emerges from the fitting room but doesn’t give the game away. Instead he nods, polite, and makes a beeline for Harry. Mr. Oster follows with an apologetic look at the agents.

“Well?” Harry says. “How did it go?”

“Very well.” Mr. Oster smiles. “We have Mr. Hartwood’s measurements and can begin his suit’s construction. That will take about two weeks. Please make an appointment with Jasper,” he gestures at the apprentice, “for the follow-up fitting.”

Harry shakes Mr. Oster’s hand. He can see the moment when the other man feels his gun calluses.

“Thank you.” Eggsy is as earnest as he can be, shy half-smile on his face and eyes wide. “It’s going to look great.”

“Thank _you_ for choosing to shop at Kingsman,” Mr. Oster replies smoothly. “I look forward to seeing you again.”

They exchange a last round of pleasantries and leave. As they exit the shop Harry hears the male agent tell Mr. Oster that _Roxy_ needs a new suit.

“Plant the tracker?” Eggsy says as soon as the door closes behind them.

“Yes. Now we just have to wait. Care to look up a hotel nearby?”

They choose the Brown’s Hotel, which is far enough from the tailors to be inconspicuous but close enough that when Pryce leaves it will be easy to tail him. Given that it’s the middle of the day and neither of them has luggage, they get several strange looks. Eggsy, of course, makes insinuating comments. In retribution Harry places a possessive arm around Eggsy’s waist right before the elevator doors close, in full view of the lobby.

Pryce chooses to leave work at a more reasonable hour that day, so Harry and Eggsy get to put their plan into motion. They find a relatively secluded area of the hotel car park, out of view of the security cameras, and Eggsy breaks into two vehicles.

“Sometimes,” Harry says. “I am truly amazed at your... resourcefulness.”

“I dunno what you ever did without me,” Eggsy says, who already has one hotwired car idling in it’s parking space and is working on the second.

“Mugged people, mostly,” Harry admits. “Occasionally pickpocketing.”

“Shit,” Eggsy shoots him a grin. “Am I raising the general standards of morality, then? I never been a pillar of the community or whatever before.”

Eggsy has seen Harry do much worse that knock somebody out for their valuables; he merely acknowledges Eggsy’s statement with a twitch of his lips.

“Done,” Eggsy announces a moment later, scooting out from underneath the driver’s footwell. “D’you want the Asbo or the Astra?”

Harry chooses the Asbo, not only because it’s an American car but because if he's going to do this he might as well live up to the stereotype.

“Be careful,” Eggsy says as he folds himself into the driver’s seat.

“As much as I can be.” Harry nods. “Communications check before we head out.”

Eggsys voice is crisp and clear from his earwig. “Can hear you just fine, Harry.”

“Good. Keep close -- we want to do this fast.”

“Course. Who’s the better driver here?”

“Which is why I left the getaway to you.”

Eggsy laughs.

They catch up to Pryce’s car on Piccadilly. Harry trails him until he turns off onto a local street.

“Ready?”

“Hell _yeah_ ,” Eggsy says. Harry can hear the grin in his voice, in the wild recklessness of his tone. “Hit it, bruv.”

Harry runs a red light at over fifty miles per hour and crashes into Pryce’s car, sending them both spinning.

It takes him two tries to unbuckle his seat belt, fingers slow and fumbling, eyes watering from the impact of the airbag. He takes a deep breath and blinks hard before stepping out -- his balance is fine, even if his reflexes are slower than normal. There’s already three other cars stopped around them.

He stumbles his way to the driver’s side of Pryce’s car. Pryce looks as if he’s been knocked unconscious, limp and sprawled in his seat, but even as Harry watches he twitches a little.

“Are you all right?” Harry hears Eggsy from only one source; his earpiece must have fallen out during the crash. “Is _he_ all right? D’you need help?”

Harry flicks his eyes toward the bystanders.

“Hey.” Eggsy knocks on one the parked cars’ windows. “Call 999.”

Harry opens Pryce’s door and leans over him. Out of sight of witness, he injects a soporific into Pryce’s elbow. The man goes still a moment later. Eggsy joins him with a concerned look on his face.

A young-ish woman -- maybe around twenty-five, asian, slightly overweight -- comes jogging up to them, phone in hand. “Is he okay? Does he need an ambulance?”

“Thank you,” Harry says to Eggsy, as if continuing a conversation. “I think that might be a good idea.”

“Sure.” Eggsy nods at Harry before turning to the woman. “Nah, I’ll take them both to the hospital to get checked out. 999’s been called, I think we’re fine. Maybe we can move the cars over to the side of the road though?”

Eggsy helps Harry take Pryce to the stolen Astra before he gets into the trashed Asbo. The helpful civilian moves Pryce’s car off to the curb and there’s another round of ‘are you sure he’s okay’ and ‘we’ll be fine, thanks’ before they can leave.

They swap cars two more times, making off with a Toyota Camry and a Volkswagen Polo from two different public parking structures before driving back to their original hotel. By then Harry is steady enough to haul Pryce up to their room himself while Eggsy disposes of the Polo.

“That was awesome,” Eggsy announces when he walks back in.

“You mean dangerous,” Harry corrects. “Kingsman will be looking for us now, especially since we have Pryce.”

“They were looking for us before.” Eggsy flaps a hand, dismissive. “Oh yeah, speakin’ of. I picked up your earbud from the car. Didn’t want to leave any clues this was a hit, kind of thing.”

“Good thinking.” Eggsy smiles at the praise. “Do you mind watching Pryce for a bit? He should be out for about another twenty minutes and I’d like to take a shower.”

Pryce is laid out flat on the bed, hands tied to the headboard. There’s a bruise darkening over his left eye and cheekbone.

“Sure,” Eggsy says. “I’ll just watch some more soaps, shall I?”

“If you like,” Harry says, and heads for the bath.

 

 

vi.

Merlin wakes with a throbbing headache and a groan. Fuck, did he go drinking last night or--?

“Hey, you’re awake,” says a voice he doesn’t recognize, and that has him opening his eyes right quick. Above him hovers a young man with a square jaw and expressive eyebrows, looking extremely familiar.

“Gary Unwin?” he says, surprised. When he tries to sit up, he realizes his arms are… tied to the headboard. Oh. This can’t be good.

“You know who I am?” Unwin peers down at him. “That’s, huh. Kind of worrying, actually.”

Merlin has a very bad feeling about this.

“Why am I tied to a bed?” Don’t answer any questions, keep the man talking.

“Well,” Unwin scratches at his cheek. “You’re kind of our prisoner. Um.”

Merlin glowers, even if it makes his face hurt. “Our?”

“He means me.” It’s a cultured voice, very English public school. The man who speaks matches: a height of around one hundred and eighty centimeters, dressed in a plush red bathrobe, hair curling damply along his forehead. He looks to be about fifty and is obviously fit.

“Harry Hart,” Merlin breathes. Suddenly a lot of things make sense. Especially how he ended up--

“You crashed into my car!” Merlin struggles to squirm upright. “Do you know how much that bloody thing costs?”

“Not a problem for Kingsman, from what I hear.” Hart raises an eyebrow. “Or do they take equipment repairs out of your budget? That must be irritating.”

“Wow,” Unwin mutters. “Way to make friends, Harry.”

Merlin opens his mouth to reply, then thinks better of it. Hart is trying to goad him into revealing information.

“Why am I here?” he says instead.

“Tell me,” Hart says instead of answering. “Do you know why Kingsman agent designation: Lancelot was killed?”

The question hits home. Merlin feels the blood drain from his face.

“Ah.” Hart presses two of his fingers to his lips, eyes sharp and watchful. “I see that you do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Asbo (Anti-Social Behavior Order) is actually the Ford Focus. Blame Rivers of London and/or Top Gear for that bit of slang.


	3. Chapter 3

When Merlin arrives at Kingsman HQ, his department is buzzing with activity.

“Hey, boss.” Naomi, Tristan’s handler, with a head full of frizzy curls and a surprisingly in-depth knowledge of petty crime, greets him as he walks into the labs. “Arthur wants a status update on the Galahad investigation. And the toast is scheduled for half past two.”

“Thanks.” Merlin makes a beeline for the coffee, although he really doesn’t need to be any more keyed up right then. It’s a routine; he has to keep up appearances. “How’d the meeting with Beijing go?”

Naomi makes a face. “Same as always. Posturing and subtle threats -- we stay out of their business, they stay out of ours, blah blah blah.”

“Hn,” Merlin grunts. “Well at least they’re still talking to us. Russia shut down relations this year.”

“I thought we were on good terms with them?” Naomi’s eyebrows go up. “Or as well as we can get on with Russia, anyway.”

“Who knows why Russia does anything?” Merlin drains the last of his cup. “I’m off to get Arthur that Galahad report. Let me know if anything else comes up.”

“Sure.” Naomi turns back to her terminal.

Merlin section is set on the basement level behind the garage, in a large concrete room that Merlin suspects acted as a bunker in the second world war. Lab benches line the walls where there aren’t doorways. One half of the room is an open space for some of the safer prototyping projects, while the other half is set up a bit like a school’s computer lab: rows of computers back to back on long tables. London HQ isn’t the only place to have a space dedicated to Merlin branch, but they are the largest -- at any one time thirty to fifty people are working in the collaborative space. Merlin, by dint of his position, has his own small office off the hub.

He goes there now and closes the door.

After Arthur told him about Lancelot’s betrayal he’d locked down all files related to the investigation to his own level of access. Only he can alter information within them – Arthur could as well, but he’d have to use his override code. Now Merlin signs in and accesses the history logs.

“That can’t be right,” he says under his breath. The logs have Lancelot -- the current Lancelot -- trying to access her predecessor’s mission histories. Quite apart from the fact that Lancelot would have no reason to access those files, Merlin knows for a fact that she was with Percival out on the town.

Which means somebody is using her as a scapegoat. But. Nobody is supposed to know about Lancelot’s betrayal, nobody but Tristan and Arthur. Could Lancelot have had collaborators? Could they be trying to cover their tracks?

That doesn’t explain why they would move now when they had months to cover up the evidence after Lancelot’s death. No, the only thing that makes sense--

He doesn’t want to think it.

The only thing that makes sense is if somebody who knew about the investigation tried to access those files.

He sidles around the thought, looks at it sideway instead of head-on. It’s only a theory. There’s no proof, no proof but his own suspicion, and that won’t be enough. He’s not even convincing _himself_.

But if it _is_ true… if Tristan or _Arthur_ tried to use Lancelot’s login to try to tamper with the files…

Merlin breathes out.

This is bad. Merlin has disagreed with some of Arthur’s -- and Tristan’s, and Gawain’s, and even Percival and Lancelot’s -- decisions in the past, but to think that they’ve betrayed Kingsman? To think that they’ve turned against their own?

Not without a lot more proof.

When the toast comes ‘round, Merlin stands in the room and drinks with the rest of them. Percival and Roxy sit at the table with Arthur, the ghostly figures of their comrades visible through Merlin’s spectacles. He eyes each of them in turn as Arthur gives his speech, wondering.

For the first time in a long time, Merlin regrets becoming a spy.

 

Now Harry Hart stands in front of him. Hart has Gary Unwin next to him like a dog called to heel, Lancelot’s unofficial ward suborned to the enemy -- but Hart is asking if Merlin knows why Lancelot died. Why he was _killed_.

“And what do _you_ know?”

“As a show of good faith.” Hart nods. “Nearly two years ago, I ran into a man I would later discover to be a Kingsman agent in one of my excursions to the Cameroon Congo. We exchanged… words. I believe that he was tasked to destroy a group that I was doing business with at the time. In the end neither of us got what we wanted; my potential business partners were suspicious of two white men having a shoot-out on their territory. The Kingsman agent recognized me. He tailed me back to my safehouse. That’s when I got a good look at his face and realized that I knew him as well.”

Merlin must not do a good enough job of schooling his face, because Hart smirks a little. “Yes. I’m a -- I suppose to you could call it _close friend_ of the Unwin family. When Lee died and another man began checking in on Eggsy and his mother, you can see why I might become concerned.”

“We had no idea Lee Unwin was connected to any criminal or terrorist elements,” Merlin says. How could that have been overlooked?

“I’m very good,” Hart says. “And Lee was discreet. He was loyal, wanted to serve. My friendship with him shouldn’t have precluded that.”

“How did you know him?”

“Not relevant to this conversation.”

Unwin grins, like watching Hart running what Merlin is beginning to suspect is one of the most subtle interrogations he’s ever seen is a spectator sport. If Hart weren’t an international terrorist and didn’t crash Merlin’s car in order to effect a kidnapping, Merlin would be impressed too.

“In any case,” Hart continues, mild as a clear blue sky in summer, “I recognized Lancelot and spared his life when I might otherwise not have. Later he tracked me down again -- persistent man -- and I was impressed enough to talk to him.”

“And this has -- had,” Merlin corrects himself. “This had been going on for two years?”

Hart flicks his fingers, dismissive. “Casual contact, nothing you should be worried about from a security standpoint. Not until two months ago, at any rate.”

“When Lancelot died.”

“When Lancelot was killed,” Hart corrects. “He contacted me, pointed me toward a threat to both our interests. Told me that he could no longer trust those he worked with.”

Merlin thinks back to before Galahad’s death, thinks about what investigations were going on. Realizes that two months ago, they started getting reports about -- “Valentine?” he says. “Richmond Valentine?”

“Very good.” Hart smiles. “Lance stumbled upon evidence that Valentine was insane. Insane in a dangerous way, mind, and powerful enough to cause quite a bit of damage. Kingsman wouldn’t listen.”

“And all this was right before he died.” Merlin doesn’t trust Hart, the timeline doesn’t add up. Not even though everything else seems horribly possible.

“No, from what I understand it had been going on for some time.” Hart slid his hands into his pockets. “He _contacted_ me two months ago to inform me of his suspicions. Before we could meet in person, he was killed.”

“Lancelot was killed while eliminating a terrorist cell entrenched within South London.”

“Were you his handler for that mission?” Hart leans forward. “Did you see his video feed? Or did you only read the reports?”

“Are you saying Valentine’s people killed him?”

“I’m saying _Kingsman_ killed him,” Hart’s voice is low, intense, certain. And suddenly Merlin realizes that Hart isn’t running an interrogation at all; he’s trying to _suborn_ Merlin.

The horrible thing is, it’s working. Merlin is halfway convinced Kingsman really did turn on Lancelot. Arthur is lying to him, somebody is tampering with his files and trying to pin it on Roxy, and now this -- he can’t _not_ believe, at least a little.

“I need to think about this,” he says.

Hart straightens. Merlin releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“Of course,” Hart says. “Eggsy? Care to watch over our guest?”

“You gonna…?” Unwin makes a complicated motion with his eyebrows.

“Yes. It shouldn’t take more than an hour.”

“Cool.” Unwin settles in a chair outside of the range of Merlin’s legs. “I’ll finish the next episode of my soap.”

“Don’t be too cruel to the man,” Hart says dryly before he leaves the room.

“I won’t!” Unwin yells after him.

“They’re really not that bad,” he confides to Merlin after the door closes. “You’ll see.”

 

 

vii.

When Harry arrives back at the hotel room, Eastenders is rolling credits and Pryce looks as if he’s been treated to a particularly subtle torture.

“Please untie me so I can strangle Unwin,” Pryce says,

Harry raises his eyebrows. Eggsy shrugs.

“Don’t like soaps, this one”

“None of us likes soaps,” Harry points out. “Not even you.”

“I could,” Eggsy says, defensive. “I mean. Not that I do. Not that I want to.”

Pryce snorts. Harry can feel the corners of his mouth tic upward; the man is much more entertaining than he’d expected.

“As it turns out, we are going to untie you.” Harry surveys the room. “Eggsy, pack up. We’re leaving in twenty.”

Pryce twists his wrists and looks skeptical. “You’re just going to let me go?”

“If you promise to cooperate,” Harry agrees. “If not, we’ll drug you.”

Pryce thinks about it. “I’ll cooperate.”

“Please don’t try to escape at any point.” Harry moves over to undo his restraints. “After all the effort we put into getting you here, I’d hate to have to kill you.”

“I’d hate to be killed,” Pryce says. He flexes his hands a couple of times after he’s free. “I’m… surprised you’re treating me this well, actually.”

“I’m ruthless, not wasteful.” Harry adjusts his sleeves. “I have manners.”

“Oi!” Eggsy calls from the bathroom. “You left your shaving stuff in here, Harry!”

He breathes out a sigh through his nose.

“Yes, I’ll be right there,” he calls. Quieter, “After you, Mr. Pryce.”

Pryce gets to his feet and blinks twice. Blood rush, most likely.

“Where are you taking me? What’s your _plan_?”

“In due time,” Harry says. “Now. Bathroom, if you please.”

The check out of the hotel without issue, stealing another car (“Lovely,” Pryce says dryly while Eggy contorts himself under the dashboard) and driving it three subway stops away from one of Harry’s safehouses.

“At least you have proper security procedures,” Pryce says, walking between them down the cobbled streets. He squints at the signs -- perhaps his glasses weren’t for show, like most Kingsman agents’ were. Harry makes a note to ask about his prescription and run by a drugstore.

“Not like you?” Eggsy says.

“I have impeccable security measures, thank you,” Pryce says. “I just didn’t prepare for _Harry Hart_.”

Harry can practically feel Eggsy’s curiosity. “What’s so special about Harry? I mean, I know he’s good...”

Pryce snorts. “You’re working with one of the most infamous men known to the international spy community, and you don’t even know who he is?”

“Eggsy is new to the business.” Harry places a hand on Eggsy’s shoulder, rubbing his thumb in small circles until he can feel the muscles under them relax.

“There’s new and there’s uninformed. Unless you’ve been keeping him in the dark deliberately.”

Eggsy bristles. “Don’t try none of that divide ‘n conquer crap on us. I’m no grass, I’ll never turn on Harry.”

Pryce shrugs, cool as you please. Harry is beginning to doubt he’s merely Kingsman support staff; even high level intel sifters aren’t trained so well. Then again, Kingsman is run differently than most spy organizations. Perhaps field training is mandatory.

“We’re here.” Harry derails any further hostilities by heading up the steps of an eighteenth century brownstone-style building. “In you get. We’re on the second floor.”

“You must be well funded.” Pryce turns his head this way and that, lingering slightly too long on the doors and windows. “We never could figure out how you got all your money.”

“I endeavor to be mysterious,” Harry agrees. They make it to the second floor.

Technically the entire building is his. On paper a young Korean couple live on the ground level and a middle-aged white man has the third, but in reality the building is kept empty but for situations like this one. It’s likely that Harry will have to burn this location after hosting a man as important as Pryce -- it’s only a matter of time before Kingsman tracks him down if they stay in the city.

“Make yourself at home,” Harry says. Eggsy takes him at his word and begins to explore the kitchen; Pryce stands just inside the threshold, wary. “One of us will stay with you at all times. Please have an answer for me by dinnertime tonight -- that’s seven o’clock -- about whether you are at all open to the idea of Richmond Valentine being… not as philanthropic as he would have people believe.”

“Fine.” Pryce heads for the hallway. “I’m going to use the bathroom.”

“Eggsy?” Harry says. “If you’d go with him? I need to set up some surveillance.”

“Ugh,” Eggsy says, abandoning the refrigerator. “Watching an old man pee. My favorite.”

“Shut up,” Pryce snaps.

 

Harry sets up perimeter surveillance and security while Eggsy keeps an eye on Pryce. They make Pryce change clothing just to be safe -- Harry’s clothes, given that Eggsy is half a head shorter than both of them. On Pryce Harry’s pants hang around his ankles and his shirt is too large in the shoulders, but they’ll do as a temporary measure. Pryce merely glowers.

“I’m gonna grab food,” Eggsy says. He has Pryce’s clothing in a plastic bag, ready to be deposited in an anonymous dumpster somewhere far away.

“What kind?”

“Was thinkin’ Thai, unless you want something else.”

“Do you have any preferences, Mr. Pryce?”

“No.” Pryce has descended into a sulk in the corner of the room. He refuses to speak in words with more than two syllables.

“Then Thai is fine, thank you Eggsy.”

“All right, be back in a bit.” Eggsy darts a glance at Pryce as he brushes by Harry on his way out the door and lowers his voice. “Sure you don’t want to tie him up while I’m gone? Just in case?”

“I’ll be fine, Eggsy.” He gives the boy’s leg a pat. “Go on. We have our earpieces as well, don’t hesitate to check in if you’re that worried.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Eggsy shoots one last glare at Pryce before he leaves.

“...Bright boy you’ve got,” Pryce says after a moment. “How did he get mixed up in this?”

Harry opens his mouth to answer -- with what he isn’t quite sure, the truth or a quick brush-off -- but his phone begins to buzz.

He checks it.

“We’re about to have company.” Pryce doesn’t look surprised. “Expecting them to be friends of yours?”

Pryce shugs. “You did kidnap me.”

“When I’ve killed them, I expect you to tell me how you did it. I didn’t notice you doing anything unusual.”

“If you like.” Pryce smirks.

Harry tosses him a pair of handcuffs. “To the radiator, please.”

Pryce puts them on without protest. Harry pulls out his glock and orients his back to the wall, out of view of the windows with a good vantage point to the door. He can faintly hear running footsteps on the stairwell.

The door slams open, breaking the deadbolt; Harry shoots the first man through. It knocks him back but doesn’t put him down.

“Bullet-proof,” Pryce says unhelpfully.

The man pulls the trigger of his own gun at Harry, forcing him to duck for cover. When he takes aim again, the man -- the _only_ man, Harry may have to be offended at Kingsman’s arrogance -- has his gun aimed at Pryce.

Harry shoots him once more, aiming for the head, but the man ducks and closes distance between them. The Kingsman agent is good, very good -- he drops his gun, useless in a hand to hand struggle, and tries to take Harry out with his signet ring. Luckily Harry has had experience with Kingsman before and doesn’t let the taser touch him.

The agent kicks Harry’s legs out from under him. Harry takes him down with him, a knife to the thigh -- missed the femoral artery, damn -- but takes a blow to the face and an elbow to the chest. Harry stabs again, feeling metal grate on bone as the agent brings his arm up to block, and--

Pryce kicks the agent swiftly in the head.

Harry coughs twice before he sits up. His glasses have gone askew in the struggle and he re-hooks them around his ears, settling them on the bridge of his nose before he looks up at Pryce.

At the gun Pryce is holding in his hand.

Pryce’s grip is rock steady; he’s handled firearms before, and often. He doesn’t have the shakes, which means he’s familiar with violence. Harry has definitely underestimated this man.

“About your offer,” Pryce says. “I know it isn’t dinnertime, but I think I believe you.”

“Oh, good,” Harry says. “Thank you for not shooting me, Mr. Pryce.”

Pryce laughs, a low chuckle of genuine amusement, and holds out his hand. Harry takes it.

“By the way,” Pryce says as he hauls Harry to his feet. “My name is Merlin.”

Merlin. Kingsman’s _wizard_ Merlin.

Bloody hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They talk! FINALLY. And also we start getting into the real plot...
> 
> As always, if you want to talk feel free to find me on tumblr!

**Author's Note:**

> [pushthequorumbutton](pushthequorumbutton.tumblr.com/) @ tumblr  
>  quorumbutton @ gmail


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